There was something, Ash-Bringer thought, that was Not Quite Right about this place.

Not that he was one to brag, but usually when people caught sight of his enormous wings darkening the skies, they fled in terror. Like an anthill kicked over, he would watch as the villagers below would scatter and scurry, the women and children to the cellars and the men to the armory. Usually there would be a call to arms and whatever village leader or militia commander had found himself stuck with the job would try to marshal the undisciplined townsfolk into some sort of defense.

Usually Ash-Bringer left those towns alone because it wasn’t worth the trouble. He would have decimated their forces, and then who would be left to raise the cattle and pigs he would have demanded as tribute? And then word would spread of the dragon who laid waste to the countryside and then there would be some sort of response from the local lord or king or what have you. Villagers were no problem, but trained knights could present a challenge for a dragon who was not on his toes. Talons. Ash-Bringer knew of two of his kin who had been slain at the end of a lucky knight’s pike.

But Ash-Bringer was beginning to feel his age. There came a time in every dragon’s life when he or she felt the urge to hoard, to carve out a territory of their own and fill it with gold and jewels, with fatted calves and plumped sheep. And so, when he saw a hamlet tucked away in the hills, in a defensible location close to the river and abutting a mountain, he listened to instinct and veered in the sky until his green scales, glittering like crystals in the dappled sunlight, made an arrow for the town.

He was prepared for the anthill that would follow. That should have followed.

But when he soared low over the cottages with the thatched roofs, the villagers stared up at him, mouths agape and weapons nowhere in sight. The men weren’t yelling; the women hoisted their children and held them up, as if getting them closer to his fearsome claws. It was odd, admittedly, but perhaps they were struck dumb with terror. Ash-bringer landed with a flare of wings and a plume of dust at the edge of town, and waited.

There was no attack, no ringing of the church bell to sound the alarm, even. Instead, a little man, heavyset with watery eyes and a beaming smile, hurried out to stand in front of Ash-Bringer.

“O, mighty dragon!” the little man cried, and he fell to the ground and prostrated himself. An auspicious start, Ash-Bringer decided. He had never heard of humans who were immediately cowed in fear, but perhaps this village was wiser than most.

“I have come to claim these lands,” Ash-Bringer hissed, his voice like the edge of one thousand knives, and heat from the flame in his throat browning the grass around them. “This village and all that is in it belong to me!”

“Oh yes, yes!” the little man cried. “Of course, mighty dragon, he of scales and flame! All that we have we offer you!”

That was – unexpectedly easy. “And you will bring a cow each day, for I hunger greatly,” Ash-Bringer continued. “If you do not – “

“Of course! We have cattle at the ready!” the little man exclaimed. “Do you require sheep or pigs as well?”

“I – yes?” Ash-Bringer said, taken aback. “And by the end of tonight, you will bring forth your gold and your wealth! If you do not – “

“Oh, we have collected it in chests and we can carry them to you whenever you desire!” the little man said, still bowed on the ground. “O mighty dragon, he of wings and death, we are honored you have chosen to demand tribute!”

This was getting weird. Ash-Bringer decided to push it and see how far he could go. “And you will send me a young maiden each morning,” he demanded. “A comely woman who will tend to me – “

“My daughter shall be the first!” the little man trumpeted joyfully as he sat up to beam at Ash-Bringer. “She is among the most beautiful in the village and she will serve you with devotion!”

There was no way. Ash-Bringer stopped and looked, really looked, at the man. He was dressed all in white and his hair was long and braided. On the front of his robes was a strange symbol – a spurt of flame, stitched in black, orange and red. Then, Ash-Bringer looked across the village. The cottages were quaint, but all had the same symbol painted on the front doors. Every person in the village stood at the edge of the gate, staring with unnerving smiles and sporting white robes with the black, orange, and red flame. In the fields beyond the buildings, Ash-Bringer could see rows of crops – pumpkins, corn, beans, and marijuana and psychotropic mushrooms.

“What is this place?” he asked sharply.

“Oh mighty dragon, it is your home, of course!” the man trilled. “The prophets have long foretold your coming! We, the devoted members of the Burning Flame, have waited 130 years for your return, as has been foretold in the stars! We live communally in a society of free love and harmony, where we partake of sacred herbs in our secret rituals. Our temple ceremonies – “

Ash-Bringer sighed in disgust and launched into the sky. Fucking dragon-worshipping cults.